City Slickers Poem by Shanta Acharya

Helmeted musclemen gliding on steel escalators
in the City bomb-proof buildings against terrorists.

Space-walking on huge walls of glass,
they examine me as they would any other lass.

Smiling, they take a random walk unafraid of vertigo
like the stock market index raring to go.

Who said men seldom make passes at women with glasses?
Real men do, particularly at women in city offices.

Cubicles, now shatterproof, hold fragile egos.
Men in dark grey suits shuffle in corporate shoes.

Pin-stripe suits come and go, talking of P/E ratio,
top-down, bottom-up methods of the intelligent investor.

As I mend the rules of the old boys' network
and demand my share of the profits of my work,

I hit the invisible glass ceiling each time
I stand up for myself as if that was a crime.

A single, Indian female, I am trapped,
alas, in a cage of bomb-proof, shatter-proof glass.

The Jurassic laws in the City continue to spawn
dinosaurs that even Spielberg cannot improve upon.

Next time these helmeted musclemen blow me a kiss,
I will signal to them to rescue a woman in distress.